I clung on to the railings and wailed. My heart was on fire, and my chest was closing in. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t understand this heartbreak and felt like I never would. It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t ok. It felt as though someone took my hope and my very being – ripped it from the inside out, and I was exposed for everyone to see but no one to understand.

I don’t know how many months passed before I realized I was clinging to the grave. I was clinging on to what had come and gone. I was clinging to the memories of a ghost. My cries turned into annoyance. My heartbreak became an inconvenience. Good grief, I was as tired of my tears as others were. I woke up every morning tired of being heartbroken but had no way of escaping it.

So, I clung on to the railings and wailed.

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Isn’t it crazy how the days are so long but the years seem so short? Seasons of deep sorrow seem to stretch across time, but moments of victories pass us by so quickly.

I have lost count of the nights my pillow was drenched in tears to the days sitting by the river praying that somehow the pain would end… whether it be that God lifts the fog or takes me home.

I was reminded that if I couldn’t see past my tears, I must trust His heart (C. H. Spurgeon). Day after day for five years, I gather the courage to get out of bed to find myself defeated at the end of the day…. to see myself doing it all over again.

I feared the light in my eyes would disappear once the fog lifted. I feared that after fighting the good fight, I would come out empty… a hollowed shell of what used to be. I believed this would be my lot for the rest of my days. I couldn’t think of anything else.

I was angry. I was ashamed. I was detached.

As I swam in the deep sorrows of my pain, I didn’t know that God’s profound grace was my life jacket. He kept me from being engulfed by the daunting waters. When I thought I was drowning, He was holding me afloat. While I screamed, cried, and pleaded desperately to the Lord, He was already orchestrating healing beyond my understanding.

He withheld so I could fully experience what was always meant to happen. He declined to answer in my pain so I may know His voice in the stillness. His silence was a willful, loving hand pressing down on me to remain still, listen, and receive. His loving hand held me there not out of cruelty but out of love. As I stopped struggling and began to listen intently, it was made known that His Grace was never absent. The lot was His Grace.

Maybe you’re struggling under the hand that is holding you in place. Perhaps you’re also clinging to the railings and wailing out in pain. You are not alone, whether in confusion or chaos. This won’t be forever, friend.

Blessings,

R.